Messages Within the Petals
by A Soul of Shadows
Summary: An attempt at writing an epically poetic device of entertaining philosophy. Sherlock runs off on his own for reasons John cannot comprehend. He's been told not to bring Scotland Yard or John into this tidbit of fun. However, John's got different ideas, and attempts to discovers what happened. Which is good, considering the trouble Sherlock waltzes right into. No slash.
1. Gladiolus

_All the characters presented to your lovely and twisted minds do not belong to me, mostly because this website is for __**fan fictions.**__ The modern characters belong to BBC and the original ideas came from the creative mind of Arthur Conan Doyle. This story can be set, well, anywhere you want after 'A Study in Pink' I suppose._

_Now to explain my reasoning behind this story. You see, I have read ever so many stories about __**Sherlock's**__ emotions. Shoving strong emotions at such a character is similar to doing the same thing to Spock and Data. Or Castiel. Or even a Cyberman. It's great fun, so everyone does it. I have elected to be different. This is my feeble attempt of creating an epically poetic device of entertaining philosophy (this simply means 'a really good story'). I shall most likely fail, but that is up to you. The reader. Enjoy._

oOo

John stared at the computer monitor as his fingers hovered mere centimeters above the keys. No words came to his mind, and thus, no words appeared on the screen. After a few moments, John tapped at the keys without pressing hard enough to type. This did not help him think of anything at all. In fact, it only served to annoy Sherlock, who snapped, "John? Why are you doing that?" John sighed in exasperation, "Don't act as if you don't know. I'm trying to type up our most recent case for my blog." Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and returned to what he had been doing before, which was pacing for absolutely no reason. This did not help John focus, nor did it do wonders for is already irritated mood. He managed to slip into his own mind, lost in writer's block. Nothing interesting had happened on their last case _at all. _John had been completely useless while Sherlock sifted through papers, decoded messages (which he had been so involved in that he didn't seem to mind working with _Anderson_), locked himself in his mind palace, and tortured his violin as he attempted to think with more clarity.

So, John merely sat there for at least half an hour before giving up and shutting his laptop. He then attempted to find something to do so he wouldn't be so bored...wait. Bored? One could not be bored when one lived with Sherlock Holmes. Insulted? Yes. Anxious? Completely. Exasperated? With every single breath. But bored? Never. Unless of course, Sherlock wasn't there. John fought the urge to slap himself for not noticing that Sherlock had left. He didn't even had a clue how long ago the detective had just strolled out the front door. "Damn," John muttered, "He better not be doing something stupid. Oh, who am I kidding? He probably is." Honestly, the man who's intellect could be compared to the brightest of minds was mighty stupid when it came to some things. Like not starving himself. Irritation blossoming into frustration, John flew down the stairs. Was he over-reacting? Perhaps. But there was no telling what Sherlock was doing. And from what he'd gathered, John didn't think the man did a very good job of looking after himself before he'd met John. In fact, he still didn't. John knocked softly on Mrs. Hudson's door, "Yes?" she asked. "Er, Mrs. Hudson? Do you know where Sherlock went off to be any chance?" She opened the door, "No. In fact, I hadn't noticed that he left. I think that means he doesn't want to be followed, dear." she told him apologetically. "It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," he reassured her, after all, it wasn't her fault, "I'll just text Lestrade, and if he's not with him, I'll go ahead and text Mycroft." She nodded, and said, "I'm sure he's fine." She then closed the door. "He better be," John muttered to himself.

oOo

There had actually been a reason for Sherlock's pacing earlier. And a perfectly good reason why he had left without alerting anyone to where he was. As he had been in the process of solving his previous case, another random killer decided to leave him a message. Perhaps it was supposed to be threatening, but so far, Sherlock was only slightly amused and curious. The message said the following: '_Come and solve this case, Holmes. But don't bring anyone else into it. Not the Yard. Not your brother. And certainly not the loyal army doctor. If you disregard this, I'm afraid there may be dire consequences. But now, I know I must capture your interest. And what you've deduced from this note will simply not be enough. So here's a little something to get you started.'_

_'White carnations and chrysanthemums. Heather and lavender. Past stargazers searching for the star of Bethlehem. You personally should take notice of rhododendrons, but you have gladiolus, so I know you will not.'_

Obviously this man had a thing for flowers (for a man it was, Sherlock knew from the handwriting). What was intriguing was the fact that he knew of Sherlock's brother. Even more so was the meanings of the flowers. In the order of which the were written: remembrance, truth, solitude, distrust, ambition, hope, beware, and strength of character. Remembrance and truth. Solitude and distrust. Past ambition searching for hope. You personally should beware, but you have strength of character, so I know you will not. It actually was a bit interesting. And, surprisingly enough, Sherlock had yet to understand why the message used flower names in place of the words. The man knew of him, so he'd certainly know that it would take little effort to realize what the sentence translated to. Perhaps this would actually turn out to be a good case. After all, he wasn't exactly concerned that he wasn't supposed to get help. He'd solved numerous cases on his own before he'd met John. He was certainly capable. However, he had yet to deduce what the man's crime actually was. The most likely thing would be that this man intended to capture/kill him, and this note was merely to draw him out into the open. Which he'd done quite willingly. John would be furious. Or it could be the murder of someone else. Or perhaps the man had stolen something of value. Maybe they were even going after John to get to him. Sherlock had to admit that this was just as likely as him being the target. At this thought, Sherlock began to turn back. He didn't want John to be in danger because of him. Well, at least not any more danger than he was simply following him.

Unfortunately, this caused Sherlock Holmes to make quite a mistake. Seeing as how he was no longer focused on not getting captured himself, and he became more concerned for John's well-being than his own, his guard dropped slightly. But slightly was enough. He realized that he had been wandering for quite some time. Therefore, he was a lengthy distance away from the flat. It would be better if he hailed a cab. The streets were busy and people practically infested every spot available. This would make hailing a cab more difficult than anticipated. Absolutely everything just contributed to the oncoming catastrophe. It would seem that even Sherlock Holmes missed certain things given the right situation. Really, what happened was mostly just bad luck. He didn't notice that throughout his entire stroll that there was almost constantly a cab some distance away. After a few moments of looking for a cab as he walked, one braked to a stop, one person stepped out, and all seemed convenient, but not convenient enough to be suspicious. So he entered the cab. "221 B Baker Street," Sherlock spoke with an absent-minded manner. He was still trying to figure out the flowers and wondering if he had foolishly risked John's life...again. He never looked the cabbie in the face. After all, why should he have suspected anything when the man drove towards his destination?

However, when the cab stopped still quite a ways away from where he was supposed to be, realization slammed into him with shocking clarity. He moved to unbuckle the seat-belt holding him in place, but just as it came free, one door opened, and a needle was shoved into his neck. Sherlock was unable to hold back a gasp as cold liquid spread through his veins accompanied by the sharp sting of the assaulting needle. Then the needle was removed, and he punched his assailant in the jaw as his vision grew darker. He felt the skin on his knuckles scrape off with the contact. Then, a strong pair of arms grabbed him and threw to the floor of the cab. His already swimming head cracked against something particularly hard, speeding his descent into unconsciousness. The door closed, and his attacker remained in the cab with him. The only way he could tell this was because the man had gripped his shoulders to hold him down, nails digging in hard enough to be felt through his coat. Sherlock's senses dulled further.

oOo

_Trust me. It's not a typical Sherlock-is-kidnapped-and-now-John's-gotta-save-hi m fic. Like I said, I wanted it to be different. I'd tell you how I plan it to be different, but, to quote River Song (I'm a fan of many fandoms), spoilers. Anyway, written to the tune of Carol of the Bells sung by Pentatonix. Why? Because I'm a soprano, cellist, and a pianist. I've got Christmas music cubed running through my head, because, for musicians, Christmas season starts in October. At least while you're still in school. So, yep, I'm listenin' to Christmas music. Honestly, when I started writing this, I had no idea what I was writing about until, um, the second paragraph. And I'm still listening to Carol of the Bells. Also, I admit that I'm American. And from Missouri. Gotta love that country accent, right guys? Anyway, sorry if the words don't sound British to you British people. Oh, and I don't really know how this website works, so I've gotta figure out how to add chapters. I'm not very tech-savvy, so this may take me a while...not too long though._


	2. Pondering

_**Pondering**_

_Due to upcoming and current real life tragedies, you know, in my life, I may or may not write very often. If I do write, it will be obvious who my favorite characters are, because they will suffer the most. I have no clue as to why, but it's true. I like my favorite characters to suffer. For example, I made one character who I liked so much that I had his family killed in a house fire (caused by a Demon, which was a mutated person or animal who'd slipped through Time in this story), his leg was burned and therefore scarred, he had a heart condition which would not allow him to live past his teen years, and he was living on the streets. Then he got a concussion. I love him so much...it's tough love. _

_And another important thing to know: I have a cheap, glitchy computer (Or maybe I just suck at using it). So, basically, there are many reasons for me not writing. I still do my absolute best to try to update things regularly, though. On the bright side, hardships in my real life do in fact make the characters suffer my wrath. Which shall be entertaining to you._

oOo

'_That's twice now,' _Sherlock chided himself in his thoughts, _'Twice I've been drugged while in a cab, then taken for some murderous intentions.'_ Was he unconscious? He couldn't quite tell, which probably meant that he was definitely unconscious. However, he felt the concrete floor he was lying on as well as the aftereffects of whatever drug had been shoved into him. So, somewhere in between states? Should he try to wake up? On one hand, he could begin searching for his inevitable escape. However, Sherlock doubted that his captors would be pleasant, so it may be better to try to sleep off the drug so he could deal with them more effectively. In the end it didn't matter. He woke up completely...or at least he was as awake as he could be at the moment. Sherlock was indeed lying on a concrete floor, in a concrete room, with a locked door. How cliche. As he found that he was well enough to stand up with aid from the wall, Sherlock examined the lock. Not that this did him any good, because he had absolutely nothing to pick the lock with. His captors hadn't been dimwitted enough to leave anything with him. Sighing with mild exasperation, he sank back down to sit next to the door. The room was weathered, damp, cold, and stuffy. This could mean that he was slightly underground, at the level where a basement would be. This was becoming more cliche with every passing moment. However, cliche as it was, he was effectively trapped here until someone else opened the door.

There was a camera in one corner, and no one had even bothering to conceal it. If it would actually help his situation at all, Sherlock would have easily been able to tamper with the wires so that he wouldn't be watched. But he just left it there, taunting him endlessly, because this would only make his captors irritated. Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to escape into his mind palace. He couldn't get out of this room without someone else opening the door for him. So, he'd either have to wait to be rescued (he'd decided against this as soon as the thought sprang to his mind) or he'd have to wait for the inevitable taunting that was surely going to follow shortly, and come up with something from there. It shouldn't be long now. They knew he was awake. Unless they were going to leave him here, to be bored out of his mind, and perhaps even die of dehydration. The last scenario seemed most likely to pass into reality, unfortunately. Then again...there was always the camera. If he dismantled it, they'd have to come down here to make sure he wasn't doing anything and then set up the camera again. However, whoever came down then would be expecting much trickery, and would be prepared. Best thing to do at this particular moment would be to act as if the drug were effecting him more than it actually was to portray an image of helplessness. Maybe he should let the aftereffects of the drug lull him back to sleep? That could potentially be lethal, considering where he was.

However, do to his case, he hadn't eaten or slept (not counting being drugged) in days, as was usual. This hadn't really ever been a drawback before, but now, his health would deteriorate much more quickly than it would have otherwise. At the moment, he wasn't bothered by hunger, but he was feeling lethargic. Sherlock wrote this off as the drug's doing, but drug-induced or not, it would only grow worse to the point where his mental capabilities would be slowed. _That _was unacceptable. So, growing more agitated with himself by the second, Sherlock slipped the rest of the way to the ground. His eyes had already been closed for a while, and all things considered, it would look like he was fainting. At least he could trick his captors somehow, even in such a small way. After all, the smallest things could make the greatest differences. Even though the ground was as hard as, well, concrete, Sherlock found that falling asleep was easy. He blamed the drug. The last thing he comprehensibly thought was, _'Still need to figure out the meaning behind the flowers.'_

oOo

Greg Lestrade stared at the text that had been sent to him. _**Please tell me that Sherlock is with you, solving another case, and he forgot to tell me. -JW**_He had immediately replied, _**No. He hasn't been here at all. Do you reckon he's doing something stupid?**_** -GL** After a few minutes, his phone buzzed again. _**Oh I'm sure he is. Mycroft's even lost track of him.**__ -__**JW**_ "Peachy," Lestrade muttered. This meant that once John found Sherlock, he'd sulk for days and be angry with the detective for every little thing. Then again, Lestrade supposed that John had a right to over-react a little bit. It was difficult to merely keep up with Sherlock on the best of days. He couldn't imagine trying to live with him. John Watson was certainly someone to be admired for his almost supernatural ability to put up with Sherlock Holmes. And as that train of thought crashed, leaving no surviving thread of anything to be pondered, Lestrade dismissed the entire encounter...until five hours later. John texted him again. _**Still haven't found him. He hasn't been answering his phone. Not even for text messages. Would you tell me if you see him so I can politely kill him? -JW**_Lestrade's mouth twitched into a half-smile briefly before the oddness of the situation struck him. Why would Sherlock avoid John? For over five hours? The man acted as cold as a stone that had been lying in a temperature of absolute zero, but even Lestrade knew that he didn't simply _forget_ John, much less ignore him. _'Damn it,' _Lestrade thought, _'He really has gone and done something idiotic, hasn't he?"_

oOo

_I apologize for the length of these things. I keep writing right before I sleep, mostly because I come up with philosophical thoughts then for whatever reason, but I naturally grow tired very quickly. This chapter was really particularly hard to write. Literally nothing happened, but it was necessary to be so, because the story demanded it to be that way. Not me. The story. Also, another reason for the shortness is that I'm absolutely starving. Because I've been writing and listening to music all day, which caused me to not pay attention to things like hunger. Also, Lestrade's POV was written to the tune of Linkin Park's Castle of Glass. I'll probably get another snippet of this story up tomorrow, written to the tune of yet some other song which fits my mood._


	3. Unfortunate Occurances

**_Unfortunate _****_Occurrences_**

_Okay, so here's how this is going to work from now on. Right now, I'm doing the thing I always do when I start a new story, which is drop all my other stories and update very short chapters onto whatever website I'm using. After the first few chapters, I round out and work on everything. The chapters in my newest story gradually grow in length and quality, but updates become more sporadic. As in, not practically every day. But still, you get better quality, greater length, more brilliant ideas as I continue on and my brain comes up with lovely plot bunnies, and every word has more meaning. This is most evident in my story on , Bittersweet. I don't care if you read it...it's not even a fanfic. Actually, this is my only one in existence at the moment._

oOo

Sherlock woke to the sound of the door opening. He jumped up, already completely alert, only to be greeted by the sight of a gun barrel pointed at his forehead. The individual holding the gun was just as boring as most people were, despite the fact that he could kill him very easily. Just by looking at him, Sherlock could deduce that this man was doing this because his wife was also being held captive. He wasn't willingly doing this to him...not that this actually changed anything. "Alright then, what is it they want from me?" Sherlock asked irritably. "Come along," was the answer he received in a low tone. The man moved behind him, and the unfortunately familiar sensation of the gun barrel being pressed into the back of his head soon followed. He was directed out the door. Sherlock expected that even if he moved too suddenly, he would not be able to avoid being shot and therefore killed or badly injured. He was led to a room directly to the left of the one he had been held in. Inside this one, there was all the things one required to perform waterboarding. Sherlock glanced at the man holding him at gunpoint, but before he could speak at all, the man informed him, "They don't want any information from you. They're after your brother, really. Apparently, he's an important man, and it was much simpler to capture you to get to him. The actual point of all this is to torture you physically to torture him psychologically." Sherlock rolled his eyes,

"Yes, I know." He widened his eyes fractionally, "...How?" Sherlock sighed and explained in an exasperated manner, "Well, first of all, they knew of him when they sent me a message. I was told not to go to him for help. If they know who he is, his relationship to me, and the fact that he could be of use in rare circumstances, then they know that he is the British Government. Also, if I had been the target, I would have been targeted because of my occupation. It would be most logical to kill me rather than _interrogate_ me. Unless they wanted to toy with me, but I can rule this out because of the method of my abduction. Drugging me and shoving me in a car happens to be my brother's favorite form of kidnapping me, and he favors it not only because I don't have to be harmed too badly, but because it can easily go unnoticed. My abduction is not wanted to be public immediately, because they want to stall the search for me. If it was to make an impact, they would have been more extravagant in their method of abduction, therefore making it a public ordeal. If they had done that, it would have been much less likely that I would have been captured in the first-"

"Alright! I get it! Just...stop," the man interrupted, "I didn't ask you to go into _that _much detail." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't respond as three more people strode into the room. Nothing about them was worth noting. They were all people of no importance to the actual group of people who had orchestrated these events. The first man, the one who had taken him from his concrete prison, was still holding the gun level as he said in a nervous voice, "Okay. So, are you going to make us...force you onto that table?" Much to the surprise of everyone else in the room, he shook his head. Why were people so idiotic? Obviously it would be of no value to him to resist. While the experience of the simulated drowning would be incredibly unpleasant, it wouldn't help to already be bruised and incoherent when it started. So he actually laid down on the board without complaint. His wrists and legs were tied to the board, and as the cloth was placed over his face, Sherlock felt a prick of nervousness. Naturally, no one else in the room actually picked up on it. Water saturated the cloth, and suddenly he couldn't breath. He couldn't stop himself from beginning to panic as his chest felt like it was on fire from the lack of oxygen. He felt the ropes around his wrists rubbing his skin raw as he desperately tried to pull them free. After what felt like an eternity, the cloth was taken off his face, his airways opened, and he would breath deeply and harshly a few times before the process was repeated.

oOo

_Yeah, a little bit shorter because I researched both torture and deductive reasoning through use of Wikipedia. Not the most reliable resource, but this is fiction, and the deductive reasoning thing sounded exactly like a geometry proof (hate them, but the use of the English language in place of geometry made it much more interesting), so I think I can do that well enough to be slightly acceptable. This chapter was originally going to be written to the tune of Adam Lopez's 'Till the End of Time,' but it was to salsa-y, distracting, and made me want to 'dance and sing till the end of time.' So I got this brilliant idea, and looked up this song on Youtube that I found out about by peeking at my friend's viola music. One particular piece caught my attention, because it was entitled '221B Baker Street.' It's orchestral and written by Jeffrey S. Bishop. I would suggest listening to it, even if you don't like the lovely stringed portion of musicality, because it is literally the way Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson would sound like if they were an orchestra song._


End file.
